


one man in his time plays many parts

by evocates



Series: all the men and women merely players [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Misogyny, Misogyny, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 06:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: [...] we very often wish that Mr. Jefferson was here, supposing that he would be indulgent to the exertions of two little women to please him, who are extremely vain of the pleasure of being permitted to write to him, and very happy to have some share of his favorable opinion.Angelica Schuyler Church to Thomas Jefferson, 21 July 1788Three meetings between Angelica and Jefferson in Paris, nearing the end of the eighteenth century. And, further downstage: Sally Hemings.(This is a story of two women, with a title meant for men.)





	one man in his time plays many parts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawittiest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest/gifts).



> For fightbackfic, [dawittiest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest) requested for Angelica and Jefferson in Paris, exploring issues of misogyny, slavery, and sexuality. I managed the first two but not the third. She also specified that she trusts me with the dynamic because she loved the one in _a fever of the mad_. Once again, I do my best to deliver.
> 
> Title is adapted from Shakespeare’s _As You Like It,_ Act II Scene VII. All fics from titles taken from that soliloquy are now in one series.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Heavy depiction of slavery, misogyny both external and internalised and in ways that are very insidious and sinister instead of overt, and depiction of a non-consensual relationship between a master and his slave. Furthermore, mentions of suicide, and canonical/historical death. Also, these are all American characters, but I’m using British spellings.
> 
> Again, if anything discomfits or triggers you, or makes you feel things you don’t want to when enjoying fandom, please click the back button immediately.

_The first time you told me that we could be free, you were sitting on a stool in the tiny room we shared in that beautiful house in Paris. Your fingers were tangled together, but that couldn’t stop them from shaking with the excitement. You reached over and took my hands. You said, “Little Sal, little Sal, he has to pay us here.” You gripped me so tight that I felt your bones pressing against mine. You said, “We get to keep our own wages here, little Sal. You know what that means, don’t you?”_

_Your hair was growing long, then, with curls falling into your eyes. But even their flickering shadows could not dim the brightness of your smile. Your skin, always paler than mine, shone underneath the candlelight. I remember how thick the wax smelled, and how slowly the candle burned; so unlike Virginia, when the candle-makers came every other week because the wax always melted and ran so quickly._

_If you’re here now, you would’ve rolled your eyes at me for that. You would’ve told me that I’m indulging in my bad habit again. You’ve always told me that I paid too much attention to the inconsequential details when I didn’t have to. You’ve always told me that I’ve let their teachings sink down to my bones, and that was far too deep._

_I suppose that’s the difference between the two of us, my brother. You always did cut out that part of yourself that the world labelled ‘slave,’ slicing off that unnameable part of your skin that screamed your status, and locked it up beneath heart-crafted glass. I never could do the same. You were right: I had let it into my bones, and now it had become part of me, its vines touching every single nerve. I could feel the weight with every breath. I could never push it away._

_The little room we had was in his house in Paris. Do you remember it? It was painted a white so bright that it shone like a jewel under the mid-afternoon sunlight, nearly blinding me on the day I arrived. The roof tiles were pale blue, the precise shade of the sky. I’d heard him talking about how precious blue was, as a colour; how it was made from ground stones from places far from even Paris. He was speaking to Mister Madison then, and he said – I remember it so clearly – that the Italians used blue to hood Mother Mary in their paintings, for she deserved nothing less._

_On that night, you took my hands and your eyes were on mine, and you talked of wages and circled freedom with your tongue, But I still could not smile, for I was remembering. I was looking at the thick cotton draped over our tiny table. I was looking at the ceramic tiles beneath our feet. I was looking at your hands – your warm, large hands – and your broad shoulders. I was looking like I am right now; looking and remembering._

_On that day, I arrived at the house in a carriage that let us off at the end of the street. I walked to the house carrying little Miss Maria in my arms. She was crying, then, because the trip had been difficult on her, and Paris was loud and strange. I should have soothed her, I know, but I could not. Because I looked at the house, and I looked at the houses on the streets. Though his was the only house with blue painted on it, the other houses on the street were just as lovely. But…_

_Paris’s streets were paved with uneven cobblestones. They were narrow and winding, and it took even you months before you could memorise the curves and angles of them. But I wonder, brother… I wonder, as you spoke of freedom, if you saw them._

_The beggars, huddled in the street corners with their rat-bitten cloaks wrapped around them, shivering as the autumn breeze blew past. The children, running with swollen bare feet that cracked and bled upon the rough stones. Did you look upon the beggars and thought, they do not look like me, but I know the look of defeat in their eyes? Did you look upon the children and thought, they do not look like me, but I know how those stark ribs and wrists feel underneath my hands, and how their bloated bellies always feel so hard, like hunger was a ravenous creature that had burrowed under their skins to eat them alive from the inside?_

_You see, the carriage’s windows were open as we rode through the city._

_Brother, I have a confession to make. I lied to you that I was tired, and that was why I could not show happiness when you told us of wages, of freedom. I told you, the journey had been long and I was unused to ships, but that was a lie too. Our grandmother arrived on a ship, and that rough, endless rocking had seeped into both your blood and mine. The reason I could not smile was not because of the ship, or the trip, or even Miss Maria’s cries ringing in my ears._

_You told me, Paris was a land of freedom. Your hands gripped so tightly on mine, and your eyes shone so bright. I wanted to believe you. Even now, I still do._

_But on that day when I arrived, I looked at the streets, and all I saw were slaves._

_I’m sorry, brother. You tried to teach me, but I could never learn to craft glass under my skin to shut the darkness away._

***

The salon was crowded today. Smoke from dozens of pipes wafted up towards the glass chandeliers, twisting the golden light from the white wax candles into soft, dream-like haze. Murmurs of voices rose and fell, sinking into the oak-panelled walls around them, forever trapped and hidden from the hands of those outside the room and the time. Smartly-dressed men carried trays, weaving around Madame de Corny’s guests, offering tiny little hors d’oeuvres. Some of the varieties, she heard the hostess murmur to one of the men, were made by a chef who had only recently arrived from Milan, bringing with him the unique methods and spices of Italian high society.

Angelica walked towards the piano. She swept back her skirts, and settled on the bench. Her hands flattened upon the dark wood that covered the keys, and lifted it up. She made sure that the _thud_ of wood upon wood was loud enough to be heard, but not enough to intrude too obviously. 

When susurrations swooped through the room, she dipped her head down and hid her face behind the fall of hair that had escaped from her fashionably-loose bun. They should not see her smile.

“It is a rare occasion indeed.” A light, lilting voice, rising above the wisps of voices. “For Mrs Church to grace us with her talents at the piano.”

“Not nearly as rarely as you do so yourself,” Angelica turned her head. “Marquise.”

The smile of Adrienne de Noailles, Marquise de Lafayette, widened, her full, plush lips peeking from behind her open fan. Beside her, her husband threw his head back and laughed. Then he turned around, and…

She had never seen the Marquis with his hair untied, but the man who stood beside him had hair that fell past his ears in a manner that, Angelica suspected, would be the Marquis’s exactly if he had ever left his hair-tie behind. The shade of their skins – from the hint of wrist she could see peeking beyond white silk gloves – were nearly identical. And though the man’s face was half-hidden by the tilt of his head, his straight, slightly upturned nose was mirrored, too, on the Marquis’s face.

The Marquis de Lafayette, Angelica knew, was an only child.

Turning, the man tilted his head. Here were the differences: sharper angles to the bones, without the softness that the Marquis’s youth lent him; slightly thinner lips, a higher arch to the brows, and heavy lines carved deep beside his eyes and on his forehead. A man who had spent a lifetime with false smiles and sincere frowns. Still, to the untrained eye, he would simply look like a good portrait of the Marquis made into flesh; one of those that would be hung in galleries and which would become the image that would, through the years, replace the true man in the eyes of the world. 

Except, Angelica added wryly to herself, not even the greatest fool would think the Marquis, so known for his black and dull blues, would ever dress himself in such bright purple velvet.

“What heavenly music will Mrs Church grace us today?” another voice called out.

Without turning from the Marquis, the Marquise, and their invited guest, Angelica smiled, and answered. “Naught that is heaven-made, I’m afraid.” She paused for the quiet laughter to breeze past her form. “Only a small sonata by Muzio Clementi. In London, I had the good fortune to meet the illustrious composer, for his patron is a good friend of my husband.”

“Clementi.” The guest’s voice was deeper than the Marquis’s, and he spoke with a slow drawl that had weight sinking into Angelica’s stomach; the knowledge curling inwards, heavy with certainty. “A student of Haydn, I suppose?”

“Not directly,” Angelica said. She curled up one side of her mouth in a smile. “Please do not judge the merits of his composition by my playing, for this body is but that of a little woman, and therefore lacking in skill.”

Pricks of needles under her skin, sinking between her nerves. A tuning fork between tight-strung wires; terribly familiar. She let out a breath, and splayed her fingers upon the ivory keys. Here and there, the dead bone was yellowed; by smoke or skin, she could not be sure.

“Do not put your talents down so, Mrs Church,” the Marquise chided. She snapped her fan closed, and tapped the whalebone against her palm. The snap of it bounced off the walls of the salon. “It is unbefitting one who is so beloved by all here.”

Inclining her head, Angelica turned back to the piano. She took another breath, and started to play.

If asked about her passion for music, she would demur, and murmur something trite about music allowing space for the raging storm of emotions that all knew sat within a woman’s heart. Or, if she was with her husband, she would smile and say that her skills with the piano brought him joy, and therefore gave her life meaning.

She would not say: there were pieces aplenty that required a great deal of skill to bring to life. She would not say: the ache of her wrists and arms settled the weight of her own capabilities in her breast. She would not say: she understood that she would never receive the acknowledgment she rightly deserved, but overcoming challenges could satisfy her nearly enough to ease the needles’ stings. 

When the piece was finished, her breath was coming faster. Selfishly so: from her knowledge that she had not made a single mistake far more than from the rousing applause she received as she stood and curtseyed towards the crowd. Hiding her eyes once more beneath her hair, she smiled and stepped away from the piano, and allowed Madame de Corny’s guests to come forward to congratulate her, or whatever it was that they wished to say or do. 

Her eyes stayed on them, but her mind wandered – rarely was she offered anything so new in conversation that she was required to think – back to that man with the purple coat. It had been several years since she had heard an accent like his: that long lazy drawl, as if the thick, syrupy sun of the South had crawled into his throat and seeped into his voice.

Or so she thought. She had never been to the South; had crossed the ocean before she stepped over that invisible and yet terribly solid border that divided the part of her homeland that was hers from the other. But she had heard enough men of the area to recognise their accent; had sunk herself deep enough into homesickness, at times, that she could not help allowing even such faraway mists haunt her thoughts.

Eventually, the conversations petered off, and she retreated to a corner of the large room. As smoke curled around her, she withdrew a long, thin pipe from within the sleeves of her dress, starting to fill it with tobacco.

Her heart was still pounding. 

“It is said that Americans in Europe are drawn to each other, for ours are the wide eyes turned westward.” She did not jerk at the sound of his voice, instead merely pausing in the middle of returning her tobacco box back inside her sleeve. “But you, ma’am. The largeness of your eyes is crafted by the Lord instead of by surprise, and you astonish even the Europeans themselves.”

Leaning in, Angelica lidded her eyes as he clicked the flint in his hand and lit up the tobacco in her pipe’s small bowl.

“High praise from a man who has yet to introduce himself,” Angelica murmured. She lifted the pipe from her lips, exhaling a long trail of smoke towards the man whose identity she already suspected. “A man who approached a lady without asking for an intermediary to make the proper introductions.”

“America hovers between us like a spectre,” he returned, lips quirking up at one corner. “Surely a grand lady such as she serves well enough.”

Making a noncommittal hum, Angelica cocked her head to the side. “Do you not fear rumours of your impropriety?” she asked, leaning back against her chair so she could better look at him from beneath her eyelids. “If I surmise correctly, sir, heavy duties rest upon your shoulders.” 

His teeth glinted under the dim candlelight as his smile widened. “Rumours of your brilliance precede you, ma’am, but they do you disfavour still,” he said, sweeping aside that bright coat and bowing. “For they have named you the North Star, but you are instead the moon.”

“A polite way of calling a woman a sufferer of lunacy,” Angelica said, arch now. Something in the man’s eyes flashed, and she took a long drag of her pipe, blowing out smoke to veil his dark, intent gaze upon her. “Do you still refuse to introduce yourself?”

“Why must I, when you have already shown that you know who I am?”

“There is a difference, sir,” she said, voice level, “between knowledge and the expression of it.”

Surely this was nothing like her conversation with Alexander, long years ago, yet the pipe in her hand felt far weightier; like a fencing foil instead, sharp-bladed to aim for the spaces between a man’s ribs. She waited for the revelation, or any hint whatsoever, of a weakness. 

But he laughed instead: a single chuckle, low and soft, as he ducked his head down. His hand pressed upon his chest. “You speak the truth in your accusation, ma’am,” he said. His eyes remained on hers as he lifted his own hand, palm facing up. “Thomas Jefferson, current ambassador of the United States of America to France.”

Angelica placed her gloved hand into his own. His breath was through the fabric as he kissed the back of it. “Tell me, Ambassador,” she murmured, “does the weight of America’s spectre weigh as heavily on you as smoke does the walls of this room?”

Jefferson straightened. “Heavier,” he told her, drawl placing emphasis on the first and last syllables. “She is young still, ma’am, and her future stretches out long and wide. And that is the burden I carry.”

Smiling, Angelica withdrew her hand from his grasp. She drew the pipe from her lips, exhaling smoke. She said, “Please, do not stand on ceremony.” 

The velvet of his coat glimmered magenta in the light as he pushed it aside once more to take a seat in the chair opposite hers. He did not speak, merely resting his eyes on her. His gaze was far too intent to be simply waiting.

Taking another long drag, she said, “Have you been in Paris for a long time, sir?” 

“Nearly two years now,” Jefferson said. Of course, she had already known that; even before she arrived, she had known that the American ambassador was one Thomas Jefferson, writer of the Declaration of Independence. “My apologies for not having been here to welcome you during your first visit to the salon, ma’am. I was held up with other matters.”

“The duties of the state are far more important than the amusements of a woman,” she murmured.

Giving that singular chuckle once more, he shook his head. “You think far too well of me,” he said, leaning forward. Instead of drawing out his own pipe and lighting it, he merely rested his arms on the table. “I have only been indulging myself.”

The cue here, too, was simple: “How so?”

Unlike most men, unlike even Alexander, Jefferson did not immediately launch into a diatribe of his interests and passions. His eyes grew unfocused instead, turning inwards. His fingers started to tap, light and soft, upon the table.

“Have you seen the beauty of Paris, ma’am?” His drawl had thickened further, every word caressed on his tongue before being released into the air. _Paris_ was especially well-loved. “Architecture, sculpture, paintings… none of those are like any that I have ever before seen. I have been left breathless so often that I fear my lungs have learned to enjoy being half-empty.”

Despite herself, Angelica laughed. She shook her head and pulled herself backwards, leaning once more against her chair as she took out her tobacco box and filled the bowl of her pipe again. When Jefferson offered her the flint, she waved him away.

“Have you seen David’s painting?” she asked after she had made the flames flare high enough with her breath to light up the new tobacco. “The Death of Socrates.”

“Of course,” Jefferson said. He tipped his head backwards, and a strange, near-rapturous expression. “The colours… the composition of the painting… It’s surely a masterpiece.”

Bringing her pipe to her lips, Angelica ducked her head down. She did not need to wonder if he had chosen his words carefully: she could see his intentions in the brief glance she had of his eyes; the surprise that she, a woman, had interest in such a piece.

“I have very little knowledge of the arts,” she said. She did not say: _It is not the colours I thought of when I looked at it_. She did not say: _Did you not see? Socrates sits amongst his students, speaking as they wept and listen; as they worshipped. Yet there is a cup in his hand, and his path is clear, and naught that he says can ever change the poison to water_.

She had not forgotten what she had told her sisters: when she met Thomas Jefferson, she would talk to him about his choices in the Declaration. But she knew all too well that men could not be confronted; men should be slowly tugged in the direction that was required of them. Like a spider, she must weave her web slowly and patiently; she must decorate it with flowers to lure them in by scent.

Raising the hand not wrapped around her pipe, she uncurled her fingers in Jefferson’s direction. “Why don’t you tell me?”

It had been months since she had heard about his presence in the city; weeks since she had been coming to this salon, weaving webs for other men even as she waited for him to appear.

Slowly, Jefferson smiled. He leaned forward, and said, “It will be my pleasure.”

This was what Angelica knew: a man loved an intelligent woman, but he loved an intelligent woman who was willing to learn from him far more. 

The words did not taste bitter on her tongue. That was the tobacco.

***

_The morning after you talked to me about our freedom in that new, wondrous city, we woke at dawn. Despite the trip, it was easy for me: we might have lived in the attic in that house, so unlike our little cottage here in Virginia, but the windows of both were small and without curtains, and the sun still rose in the east._

_I still remember so well our duties in the morning. You had to rush to the stables some streets away to clean the carriage and prepare the horses for the day, while I had to iron Miss Maria and Miss Patsy’s clothes such that they would be properly dressed come breakfast. Both of us had exactly an hour for our chores. Do you remember, brother, how much you teased that I looked all wrinkled from the steam even as I chided you for smelling of horse and straw?_

_We used to prepare their breakfast together. You would tell me, then, about the lessons you had been taking in French cuisine. Your eyes were so bright and your fingers so swift as you said, that morning, that there were many rich men in Paris who would want for a good chef to serve them. I remember the arch of your neck as you bowed your head over folded pastry and mixed meats; the soft, wondering note of your voice as you told me that our master was kind._

_My heart ached for you, then. Should I have known then? Should I have_ realised _?_

_He always woke with the dawn, at the same time we did. You would bring back a single horse for him to ride down the streets of Paris, and when he returned you would rush from the kitchens to bring it back to the stables to give it the rub-down it needed. It fell to me, that morning, to set the table for breakfast – setting out the cloth, polishing the silver, cleaning the china – before I went to wake the young ladies._

_You never liked them, brother. You said that they were spoiled. You said that their hands were too soft for anything truly worthwhile, and they would never make their own ways in the world. You used to look at them, and then at me, and said I was worth ten times what they could ever be._

_But do you remember breakfast while we were in Paris? Not the softly-murmured criticisms he would make of your first attempts at the cuisine, but the moment when Miss Patsy and Miss Maria had taken the seats. Those few seconds when how he would hand out our schedules for the day?_

_It never mattered to him that you and I were standing in the corners of the room and his daughters were seated on either side of him at the table. The paper he used for all four of us had always remained the same._

_Miss Patsy never once complained, but she used to rub the piece of paper between her fingers and look between it and the two of us. I don’t know what she thought, then – Miss Patsy was too old for my care, and she never spoke to Miss Maria unless she had to – but I suspect…_

_She has forgotten so much ever since she married, brother. I do not blame her for it. I have seen the bruises on her skin. I know what memories escape in times of desperate need._

_I know, I know. You do not wish for me to talk about these things. You have chided me so many times for keeping my heart far too open, and giving pity to those who didn’t deserve it. But my eyes are not as good as yours. I cannot look into the distance and see shapes and possibilities stark enough for my hands to hold. I can only look around me._

_Your eyes are built for dreams, my brother. Mine have never been capable of such a thing._  
  
***

Jefferson had dressed his living room in dark dullness: primarily reds and browns and greys, with streaks of black like shadows had scored their nails on the walls and floors as they were chased away by the sunlight pouring in from the tall, wide windows framed by the gauzy curtains. The white porcelain cup in her hands stood out, and the coils of blue, like unspooling silk, were stark in their beauty.

“Only in Paris could one find porcelain of such quality,” Jefferson said. He was seated opposite her, reclining on a chair made of dark wood and upholstered in a dark red that made the magenta of his code shine even brighter. “It is nearly insulting that no traders would bring such goods over to America.”

“The journey of the ocean is rough,” Angelica murmured, sipping at the tea. It tasted nearly the same as in London; thicker than that which she had back home in Albany. “These are delicate things.”

“I suppose,” Jefferson sighed. He brushed a hand over his eyes, and downed the rest of his own cup. The knot in his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he waved a hand.

A girl came forward. She could not have been more than sixteen, dressed in a rough black cotton dress with a white apron over it. Her curls were pulled back into a tight bun that tugged lines into being at her temples. Angelica closed her eyes, but she could not shut out the sounds of Jefferson’s cup being refilled; of the slave pouring the tea.

“Now, ma’am,” Jefferson said, and he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His fingertip circled over the rim of his cup as his eyes fixed upon her. “What is your reason for calling for a meeting today?”

“Must a lady in a foreign city have reason to meet a countryman?” she returned, meeting his gaze over the top of her own cup. “Is the grand lady of America not reason enough for our meeting?”

Jefferson chuckled again. His loose curls fell over his eyes as he shook his head, and he brushed them away impatiently. “Only if you are like any other lady, ma’am,” he said. He extended a hand, unfolding his fingers to expose his palm. “Fortunately, you are like none other.”

The praise required a smile in response, so Angelica gave it. She finished her own tea, and placed it back on the table. Before Jefferson could call the girl over, she picked up the pot and poured another cup for herself.

“Flattery does get you places,” she said. She paused for long moments – she already had the words, but it was better for him to believe that she needed time to gather them, and herself – before she sighed. “I was fortunate enough to be in Albany during the time of the revolution,” she said, and deliberately did not notice his spine straightening. “Mister Paine’s _Common Sense_ was easily available there.”

“A fortune for Mister Paine as well, certainly,” Jefferson murmured.

Angelica flashed him a smile. She allowed him to catch a glimpse of her exposed wrist as she picked up the cup again, leaning against the back of the chair with her fingers cradling the bottom of the porcelain. 

“I was also present for many of the public readings of the Declaration,” she said. She stifled her smile at the way his head jerked upwards. “It was a seminal piece of work, sir.”

“You flatter me unduly.” His pleased, wide smile belied his words. “The Declaration was the fruit of the shared effort of all of the members of Congress at the time of its making.”

“Nevertheless,” Angelica said, “you are its primary author.” Another sip of the tea to give time for Jefferson’s impatience to grow, and for him to shift forward. “Hence, I have a question.”

“What is it?” he cocked his head to the said.

“‘We hold these truths to be self-evident,’” the words rolled off her tongue easily, “‘that all men are created equal.’” Her cup clinked, soft and light, as she set it back on the saucer. “Tell me, Mister Jefferson: what do you mean by ‘men’?” 

His head cocked to the side. “I’m afraid,” he said, voice even, “your meaning eludes me.” 

Quick words; brisk tone. The absence of a title. Even if those eyes were not averted, Angelica could taste his discomfort in the vibrations of his voice in the air.

“Please, Mister Jefferson,” she said, pitching her voice higher in turn. “It is a question that greatly troubles me.”

Folding his hands atop of his knees, Jefferson straightened himself. The lines on the edges of his eyes deepened as he smiled. “For what reason?”

Angelica did not smile. Instead, she ducked her head, and kept his own voice soft and uncertain. “It has long been the habit of philosophers to use ‘man’ as a standby for humanity,” she said. “I do not blame them for such a thing; after all, their topics are so complex that they slip far too easily out of the soft hands of women.”

She waited until he nodded before she continued, “But you, sir, you were not writing a document on philosophy. You wrote a treatise for the sake of freedom. You wrote a call for war.” Leaning backwards, she gave him a crooked smile. “Are women unsuited for such things, too?”

“I do not grasp your meaning,” Jefferson repeated. His smile had faded, and his lips were pressed into a line as thin as that which Angelica was trying to balance on herself.

“Before the country’s birth, it was Betty Ross’s hands that stitched the flag for it to be swaddled in,” she said. She picked up her cup once more, running her fingers over the blue coils. Not silk, she realised, but vines. “During the times of war, funds for bonds were brought to being by the hands of the wives and mothers and sisters of soldiers and officers. It was the women’s hands who held close the wounds of the dying, and gave them succour for their fears and griefs.”

Taking a sip of her tea, she sighed. “I know those are but small contributions, unequal to the blood of soldiers spilled upon the soil. But surely…” She ducked her head down, but made sure her voice was still strong as she said: “If under the light of a new country built upon freedom, women still could not find words that justified their worth, then where, Mister Jefferson, could we find them?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a flicker of movement. She closed them so she would not see.

That, too, was a mistake: she jerked hard when she felt large hands wrap around her own, pressing her fingers hard against the fragile porcelain cup. Her breath hitched despite herself, but managed to steel herself without jerking back like her instincts screamed for her to do.

“I hear your grief, ma’am, and I feel its echoes in my own heart,” Jefferson said. His voice was soft, and his eyes had lowered to where their hands were joined. “These are troubles that have plagued me for long years as well.”

“Have they?” The words spilled out of her involuntarily.

“Yes,” Jefferson said. His fingertips run over her knuckles. His skin was smooth and dry; the thought of scales ghosted through her minds, and she quickly dismissed it. “I was once the husband of a brilliant woman.”

Angelica had heard of Martha Jefferson, of course. _Bright-spirited and witty,_ she had heard her described; paltry, empty words often applied to women, and even more frequently having no meaning whatsoever. 

“My wife instituted a brewery at our plantation,” Jefferson continued, and his smile, strangely, now smoothed out the lines on the corners of his eyes. “It was she who took care of its administration; she who ensured that its every aspect was well taken care of so as to guarantee its success.”

A wife with a knack for business. It was still, of course, all part of housekeeping. But the unfocused, inward-turned look in Jefferson’s eyes… Angelica swallowed, and tried to push down the hope in her chest.

“The deft touch of her hands was not turned merely to the plantation, of course.” His grip on her hands tightened, and she tried to relax into it, breathing through her teeth. “My Patty played the piano well, and sang beautifully.” His smile widened.

“Like you do, ma’am.”

Her breath stopped in her throat.

“Now I am no longer the husband of a brilliant woman, but I am still the father of two clever daughters.” His thumb stroked across her knuckles again. Though his skin was warm, Angelica felt ants forming, biting at her until she could feel them burrowing into her flesh and between her nerves. “The rigours of Patsy and little Maria’s education are no less than what I would’ve given to a son of mine.”

Somehow, she managed to wrest air away from the band tightening around her lungs. But there was a flicker of movement at the corner of the room again, and she had to fight to not tremble.

“My heart aches, ma’am, when thinking of my daughters, for it pains me to know that, one day, the ways of our society will tear them away from me, and join them with men who will not love them as I do.” He sighed, and shook his head. 

Closing her eyes, Angelica pulled her hands away. “I feel for your grief,” she said, and hated how the brittleness of her voice echoed in her own ears. “But, sir, would it not give you greater joy to see your daughters acknowledged for their accomplishments? For your wife?”

Jefferson sighed. He dragged a hand through his hair. When he smiled again, his face was smooth enough to remind her, eerily, of the Marquis de Lafayette.

“I have been unclear, ma’am, and for that I apologise.” His tone was so gentle that the ants beneath her skin burrowed deeper, biting and biting. “But have you forgotten the applause that greeted your performance in the salon?”

He picked up his cup of tea and sipped at it. “If my daughters could gain half the love you have of those within the salon, ma’am…” The clink of porcelain on porcelain was loud and grating, nearly enough to make her flinch. “I, as a father, would be proud indeed.”

There were no ants under the skin. There were only flames, devouring and devouring.

“What need would they have for the change of a mere word, ma’am, when they could be surrounded by love and admiration instead?” 

Before he could reach for the teapot, Angelica closed her fingers around it. But it felt too light, and when she tipped it, only a few drips of tea escaped from the spout.

“Sally,” Jefferson said, and waved a hand.

The girl came forward. She bent her knees to pick up the cup. Her eyes were lowered, lids so heavy that Angelica could not catch a single glimpse of her eyes.

It was a relief.

“I’m glad that you brought up the topic, ma’am,” Jefferson said. He reached out with his hands, and turned them until the palms faced upwards. “Your thoughts and eloquence about the topic only proved your brilliance.”

Angelica drained the tea, and allowed Jefferson to take one of her hands in his larger ones. His skin was smooth, and dry; the rasp of it against her own reminded her of scales once again. As he lifted her hand to kiss the back of it, there was no tongue; no impropriety. His breath came even and deep, without any hint of a hiss. 

Murmurs of rough cotton sliding against more of itself. Quiet taps of footsteps. Angelica did not pull away as the slave set down the teapot. “Your tea, sir,” the girl said, and stepped away.

Jefferson’s eyes were fixed upon hers. Belatedly, Angelica recognised her cue.

“You overwhelm me with your flattery,” she said. Her voice, she told herself, did not sound like the slave’s.

Yet she could not help but remember: there were rumours of a paragraph that was once in the Declaration, a paragraph that condemned slavery, and urged for the ban of it. The whispers that reached her said: It was Thomas Jefferson who had written it, and it was the Congressmen of the South who had demanded for it to be struck out, erased entirely.

She looked into those eyes, now. They were kind as Jefferson patted her hand and let it go. She looked, and thought, _Is Jefferson himself not a Congressman of the South_?

The slave had returned to the corner of the room. Her hands were folded together in front of her, and her eyes were lowered to the floor.

Angelica turned away. She picked up her tea.

“In your note yesterday,” she said, “you spoke of going to the Thuileries this morning?”

“Yes,” Jefferson said. His smile was wider now, showing hints of white teeth between his full lips. “Tell me, ma’am: Have you ever seen the hotel de Salm?” 

***

_You used to have your lessons in the afternoons, because he would take his dinner at either his office or at a salon, and thus had no need of you. But on many of those afternoons, he would bring guests back to his beautiful house for tea._

_There is one such afternoon that I have never told you about; an afternoon I have never told you for your eyes are so bright and full of dreams. On that day, he returned home early, right after lunch, and he told me that there would be a lady visiting._

_Mrs Angelica Church has delicate bones, and her skin is darker than both ours. She arrived in a carriage and with silk on her fingers and pearls on her wrists. He waited at the entrance for her, and held out a hand for her as she took the steps down. He told me, in the morning, to set out his newly-bought china, and the best tea. I did both._

_They spoke of freedom that day, my brother, and not once did she turn to look at me. I wish you had been there, standing by my side. Perhaps she would find the sight of you easier to bear. Perhaps you would’ve served as the reminder that I could not be._

_This is but one of the things I have kept from you. I will not apologise for keeping secrets, however: I did not mean to keep my silence. I just couldn’t find the words to tell you. When I did… When I did, it was already too late._

_I’m telling you of that afternoon, brother, because it was that night that he called me to him. I do not know whether it was Mrs Church’s presence that day that prompted it, or it was because, that morning, I stepped into a slice of sunlight when bringing him breakfast, and he called me by her name._

_No, not Mrs Church’s name. Her name. Our sister’s. Or, well, mine, for you never liked thinking of her as such._

_I can hear you thinking already, and that is why I never knew how to tell you: It wasn’t like that. He didn’t take me by force like those stories that are so common amongst us house slaves, those stories that are also the field slaves’ to tell. He didn’t threaten me._

_Brother, he asked. He sat on the bed and took one of my hands in both of his own. He looked into my eyes, he looked at my face, and he asked. He told me that he was lonely._

_It was not out of pity that I agreed – and I did agree – though I could see in the creases around his eyes that he spoke the truth. It was not out of fear, either, even though I could not believe him that disagreeing would bring no punishments upon either of our heads. It wasn’t because he was as kind as a master could be: that, I knew, was due to the guilt he felt; he knew all too well that our blood carried his father-in-law’s. It was not out of anything like that. It was just…_

_Before she died, our sister had asked me to take care of him. She had held my hand like he did, then, and she had asked me._

_She was our sister, brother, no matter how much you wish to deny it. She was our sister and his grief for her loss was still so deep. You told me that yourself: in the years before my arrival, he fell in love with a woman, a Mrs Maria Cosway, and broke his wrist trying to impress her with a paltry trick. I could see it too, that afternoon, the love he held for Mrs Church._

_He kept his love for married women only, for he knew he would never have them. I understand that. I could see that. He tried so hard to keep his promise to our sister, brother, so how could I do anything but the same? How could I not agree?_

_But I was only sixteen, then. There were things I knew, but the knowledge had not sunk deep into my bones. Untethered thus, I saw your dreams. With chains on my wrists and not my heart, I wanted…_

_When I felt my belly swelling that first time, I foolishly asked him for our freedom once the child had reached adulthood. I did not ask for yours, brother, for I knew even then that you would make your own way. I asked for mine, and the child’s._

_He smiled and touched my face with a hand. His hand splayed upon my belly, upon our child, and he agreed._

_I looked into his eyes and knew, then, that he lied. But I promised our sister to take care of him, so I pretended to believe._

_You asked me once, brother, how I could stand the weight of the chains on my ankles and neck so easily. Brother, brother, you never realised._

_The chains covered me entirely, and I have never seen myself without them marking my shape._  
  
***

“This is Wedgwood,” Angelica noted.

The unfamiliar teapot in her hand was made of white porcelain also, but on the curved surface was a painting of a man fishing at a lake, his small figure nearly dwarfed by the large trees surrounding him. The ink was black, the contrast with the ceramic stark. It was beautiful.

Gently, she ran her fingers over the edges before she placed the pot back into the velvet-lined box. The material was, predictably, purple, though the box itself was thankfully dark brown wood. 

“I seem to have lost your favour these past few months,” Jefferson said. He was sitting opposite her again, legs crossed with his hands folded on top of his raised knee. “This is a paltry effort to regain it.”

Reaching for her sleeve, Angelica’s fingers brushed against her pipe. She forewent it for the fan instead, taking it out and snapping it open.

“You have confused me, sir,” she said, using the stretched paper to hide the bottom half of her face so she could look coquettishly at him over the top of them. “You always had favour in my eyes.”

There was no way in which she could allow herself to dislike him. Despite being an ocean away, Jefferson was, still, one of the most powerful members of American society. And though Angelica knew that she would not return to America permanently any time soon – and hence its events would only touch her briefly and peripherally – there were still too many she cared about who would be doomed by unfavourable winds.

“That is a relief to hear,” Jefferson said. “And here I was nervously fretting if Mrs Church will ever deign to look at me again.” When he smiled, there was barely a glimpse of teeth. 

It was nearing sunset; there was not enough light to make them glint. Yet Angelica could not help but think of fangs, and she had to swallow to hide her breath’s tripping. 

“Surely there are plenty of those who love you to keep you company.” She cocked her head to the side, and lowered her fan so the insincerity of her smile would not seem so obvious. “Why would the opinion of a lowly wife of a merchant mean anything to the author of the Declaration of Independence?”

Before Jefferson could speak, she leaned forward and snapped her fan close. “The future author of the Declaration of the Rights of Men, too?”

Jefferson blinked. After a moment, he burst out laughing. Not just the single chuckle that he was wont to give, but a far richer, longer thing. Despite herself, Angelica felt her smile melting into sincerity, as if the sound had turned her into wax and lit flames beneath her skin.

“You never fail to surprise me, ma’am!” Jefferson said. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, and his smile was bright as he reached over and touched her hand. “That was supposed to be a secret between the Marquis and myself. How on Earth did you find out about it?”

Behind her eyes: the sight of a woman with her long curls piled up high on her head in the style of the latest fashion; the curls falling down her face. Her smile, easy and brilliant, as her husband bent his head down until she could whisper in his ear, his fingers overlaying hers gently upon his elbow.

 _Unlike you, sir, the Marquis does not keep his wife in a cloister, and instead trusts her with all of his secrets_.

“If I tell you, then you will no longer be surprised, sir,” Angelica said instead. She tossed her hair back, and tipped her chin up so she could look down on him in a pretence of arrogance. “Where will I be, then, once you have lost interest in me?”

“Ma’am,” Jefferson said, lips curving upwards once more to show a hint of teeth. “Surely you underestimate yourself. A woman of such brilliance… How could I not be enraptured?”

 _It is not your rapture I desire_. Angelica thought. She opened her fan again.

Murmurs of cloth brushing against cloth. The clink of porcelain upon wood. “Your tea, sir. Ma’am,” the slave girl said. 

Hand tightening on her fan, Angelica forced her eyes open. She had closed them by reflex at the girl’s entrance, but this morning, she had looked herself in the mirror and told herself that she had nothing to fear, and she would look upon her.

But when she did, she realised it was a mistake: there, beneath the layers of cotton and wool that was surely her uniform in Paris’s late autumn, was an unmistakeable curve.

“Sally,” Jefferson said, his hand catching the girl’s elbow. She did not flinch away from the touch, and neither did she lean into it; her body remained completely still even as her neck moved to turn her face towards him. “You may retire for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Yes, Mister Jefferson,” she murmured.

“I will ring the bell if I need you,” Jefferson continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Otherwise, you may rest.”

Lowering her head, the girl made a curtsey. Even with the tray in her hands, even with the obstacle of her belly, it was perfect. She had been, Angelica realised dully, well-trained.

The sound of tea being poured. The teapot they were using right now was starkly different from Jefferson’s gift to her: polygonal instead of round, with blue paint instead of black. But Jefferson’s sin still shone sienna upon it. A shade darker than the girl’s, and paler than Angelica’s own.

In the North, there were rumours of the plantation owners of the South: many of them took slaves as their concubines and had children with them, it was said, and the masters were cruel and inhuman because they could bear the thought of having their children as slaves.

Would that girl’s child have skin like his? Or would the mixing of the blood turn out strange, and it would be born full-dark like Angelica herself?

Jefferson picked up the teacup. Polygonal, too, it contrasted strangely with the saucer beneath. The beige spots on the ceramic, Angelica noticed, were of a Grecian style: Heracles’s freeing of Prometheus. “Here, ma’am,” he said. “The brand is the same as that served at Madame de Corny’s salon, though the flavour is different.”

Her hands folded her fan back into her sleeve, and closed around the saucer. The scent of it hit her nose: a strange mix of apple and crisp, roasted green tea. Angelica sipped, and tasted nothing.

“It is delicious,” she said, because she knew she should.

The entrance hall of this house was panelled with dark wood. Oak, she remembered Jefferson telling her, his voice matter-of-fact and without pride. His hand was half-curled over one spot of the wood, then; curled like how he held the teacup as he offered it to her, curled like his hand upon that girl’s wrist. 

“Ma’am?” His hand now on her wrist. Half-curled, as always. 

No, this man was not the Serpent of Eden, like she had once thought. The Serpent hissed words that led to temptation, but the Eve’s choice and sin were still entirely her own.

Here, in front of her, was the monstrous creature, the great snake that hovered over Loki in the ancient Scandinavian myths, given human form. It was not his words that she should fear, but the poison that dripped from between his teeth.

But, unlike Loki, her shaking would never be strong enough to send tremors through the earth. And the girl…

“A thought came to me,” Angelica said. She placed her cup back down on the table, taking care to not shake his hand off. “You once spoke of the breweries your wife has created upon the grounds of your plantation.”

“Yes,” Jefferson nodded. His fingers slipped to press over the insides of her wrist; on the thin skin, and hovering over the beating pulse.

“I am curious, sir,” Angelica said. She lifted her head to look at him, but focused only on the image of her sisters back in America; on Alexander, and his endless ambitions. “As one born in the North, I never had the opportunity to see a plantation.” She tipped her head to the side. “Is running one much like that of the farms in the North?”

Jefferson blinked. “That is an interesting topic to mention, ma’am,” he said. “I do not know how farms in the North are run, but I am certain that the methods are very different.”

She reached out. Her hand rested upon his, and he started. When his eyes met hers, she smiled. “Will you tell me of your particular methods, sir?” 

A man loved an intelligent woman, but he loved an intelligent woman who was willing to learn from him far more. For only then he would know himself to be superior, and therefore be inclined to patience and amiability. 

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss upon the back. “Of course,” he said. She leaned back against the chair, and settled herself into listening.

Her skin burned from the poison dripping from his tongue. But here were her paltry cards to play.

She carefully refused to think of those who arrived at the table with empty decks. There was, after all, nothing she could do.

***  
_  
When we were young, you used to bring me to the fields in the middle of the night. You would sit me in your lap, my small body leaning against your chest, and you would point out to me the stars and constellations that we could see. I have forgotten all of the names by now, but I still remember their shapes. I remember the warmth of your body against mine._

 _Maybe I should’ve said, when_ you _were young. Momma had always said that I was born old, after all. That’s why I never told you any of this until now, you see. I was selfish: I wanted to see the stars as they were reflected in your eyes. I could not see them otherwise, for when I looked up, the night sky was simply one large, sprawling cage._

_I should’ve told you, Jimmy. I should’ve told you. You wouldn’t have dreamed, then. You wouldn’t have hoped, and believed, and all those things. I should’ve told you, then you would’ve realised._

_Then you would still be alive._

_All those nights in Paris when you spoke of freedom… I already knew. It’s not freedom you want, Jimmy. It’s not. You’re like me, broken irreparably deep inside. But while I loved our sister…_

_You loved him, didn’t you? You loved him. You dreamed of freedom because it was easier to imagine that than to try to craft in your mind the mist of standing on equal ground with him. It was easier to dream of freedom than of the colour of his eyes when he looks at you and acknowledges you to be his equal._

_Momma said, I was born old. You’ve heard her say that a thousand times. So why didn’t you tell me? All of these nights as we stared up to the stars… Jimmy, I would’ve understood. I’ve loved her since before I knew what love was. I’ve loved her, and I love her still, even when I knew her eyes would never see me._

_We’re the same, Jimmy._

_I’m sitting in the same field now. But, this time, you’re not here. I only have the stars to speak to now, because he refused to have your body buried in our graveyard. I tried to ask._

_But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It’s a good thing. Only slaves are buried there. He refused, which means that he doesn’t see you as a slave anymore. That’s… that’s something. It’s something._

_Here’s another something for me to hold on to: I’m not exactly alone. My womb is filled once more. He came to me before he left for Philadelphia. I never got the chance to tell you that._

_This time, he didn’t ask. I didn’t expect him to, anyway._

_That’s a good thing, too. Isn’t it?  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Resources used for this fic: [Jefferson in Paris](https://www.monticello.org/site/jefferson/paris%20Monticello.org), [James Hemings](https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/james-hemings), and [Angelica and Jefferson’s letters to each other](https://founders.archives.gov/index.xqy?q=Correspondent%3A%22Church%2C+Angelica+Schuyler%22+AND+Correspondent%3A+%22Jefferson%2C+Thomas%22&s=1111211111&r=1), all written after their meetings in Paris. Muzio Clementi is a composer who was the contemporary of Mozart, and more popular than him at the time. He worked in both Italy and England, and thus it was probable for Angelica to have met him and played his pieces for a crowd.
> 
> This time, everything is historically accurate except for the fact that Harriet Hemings, Sally’s child born in 1801, was already a few months old by the time James died.
> 
> I’ve come to a realisation with my recent fics, especially the ones for this series: every single line is loaded with several different meanings, and that’s why they’re pretty short. Hopefully, this doesn’t mean that I’m being obscure and opaque with the meanings and themes on the first read, lol.  
> e  
> I can be found @[evocating](http://evocating.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and please feed the starving author comments.


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